


The One Where Jaskier Isn't Welcome

by NerdyBirdy6602



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26071120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyBirdy6602/pseuds/NerdyBirdy6602
Summary: Jaskier hadn't always been a successful bard. Geralt met him at his lowest in Posada, where his audience jeered and threw food at him. Since then, he hasn't had anyone touch a single hair on his pretty little head. No one would cross the White Wolf's bard. No one wanted to answer to Geralt of Rivia's wrath.That was true until they arrived here, where Jaskier isn't treated so kindly.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 466





	The One Where Jaskier Isn't Welcome

Geralt’s hunt was, for the most part, uneventful. The village had asked him to take care of a few Nekker nests too close to the outskirts, and in return he would be rewarded handsomely. It was simple contracts like these that the Witcher loved to do more than anything. Nothing got in the way; It was just him and his silver sword. When Geralt had left that evening, Jaskier had promised to perform at the local inn to keep his mind busy.

“I can’t just sit around and wait for you to return,” Jaskier had said before picking up his lute. “I just hope you’ll catch the tail end off it.”

Geralt and Jaskier were used to these types of arrangements and, at the end of the day, they would pile their coin together for whatever they needed, whether it was for new lute strings or potion ingredients. It was a system that had worked for them for decades, and an efficient one at that. At times when they took breaks from travelling together, they each found it was the most miserable time of year. The two could manage just fine without each other, but it was an unspoken fact that they were more comfortable. Sadly, Kaer Morhen’s access was strictly Witcher only. Geralt wouldn’t dare cross the oldest Witcher on the Continent, and Jaskier respected that wholeheartedly.

Jaskier had thought that this evening would be like any other. He would perform the hits, the crowd would clap, and he would bow. Ever since “Toss A Coin To Your Witcher” became popular, the bard had hardly ever had food thrown at him. No one would dare hurt someone protected by the White Wolf, and Jaskier’s fame was only growing. This crowd might have been a bit rowdier than the past few inns, but he just thought they would be louder. He didn’t think they would actually be angry, of all things.

It started with a tomato that just barely missed his head. It made him freeze mid-word, unable to get past the “valley of plenty” in his opening ballad. He tried to chuckle it away and make an off-handed joke about how it was a waste of food. It worked for a brief moment, and Jaskier had given a genuine smile as he continued where he left off. Jaskier had surely faced hecklers before. One couldn’t be so bad, but then the next tomato met its target.

Jaskier winced and, yet again, stopped. He used the sleeve of his doublet to scrape away the juices, groaning at the smell. Apparently, they weren’t just tomatoes, but rather rotten tomatoes. Jaskier excused himself from the makeshift stage, apologizing to the crowd for… Well, he wasn’t sure why, but it just felt right.

“Where do you think you’re going,” the gruff voice of the innkeeper called behind him. “Get back up ‘ere.”

Jaskier turned, eyes pleading with the man. “All due respect sir, but they’re not enjoying it. I can’t perform to an angry crowd. I have some dignity, after all.”

“Listen, bard. You agreed to entertain in exchange for a room. That was the bargain we struck when you and the Witcher arrived, since you believed my prices to be… too much for you. I’d be cheated if you didn’t go and entertain them, even if it’s just for target practice.”

The innkeeper gives a hearty laugh, and Jaskier’s face pales. He glanced around at the drunken men staring his way, quickly realizing that he couldn’t refuse. The bard didn’t have enough coin to pay for a room on his own, and he hadn’t an inkling as to when his Witcher would return. He could try to refuse, but the man had many loyal patrons in his inn. Even though they were drunk and not as skilled with a scabbard as Jaskier himself was, he still couldn’t take on a whole inn. He didn’t have Geralt-levels of strength, and so he trudges back to the stage.

In hindsight, Jaskier was proud of himself. He sang his precious little heart out for hours while also dancing and dodging around the food thrown his way. The bard kept up a peppy facade, grinning as if this happened every day of his life. Some part of his brain bitterly remarked that Valdo Marx probably didn’t have these troubles. In fact, that bastard was probably entertaining an appreciative royal court as he sang in this dank room of drunkards. Mostly, he just wondered when Geralt would be returning.

Jaskier’s singing abruptly came to an end with a squawk as he failed to dodge a much harder object that hit him directly in the eye. He would later discover that it was an apple, but all he knew in that moment was pain. The bard fell to his knees, cradling his face in his palms. The jeering crowd took this opportunity to relentlessly pelt him with whatever they had. They shouted insults too, but Jaskier only caught a few of them… One of which referred to him as “the Witcher’s whore.” He tried not to think about where that rumor arose from, or how long it had been circling about. The bard merely covered his face and listened to a few worrying crashes around him. Where was the mighty Witcher when he needed him?

“Hey!”

Jaskier felt the room become still and tense at the very familiar, gravelly tone. He rose to his feet on shaky legs and couldn’t help but smile. Geralt had come to his rescue yet again. This time, however, the Witcher was still under the influence of one of his many potions because his eyes were as black as raven feathers. The man’s face was even paler than usual, and the snarl he wore was nearly feral. Geralt was ready to rip the people to shreds, he could tell. Nevertheless, Jaskier was not afraid. This version of Geralt, the one who was much more beast than man, knew the bard fondly. There were many times Jaskier had to tend to wounds while Geralt was taking potions. Not once did he ever feel in danger.

Geralt stormed through the crowd up to Jaskier, gently holding his face in his strong hands. The bard leaned into the touch, smiling weakly at his knight in shining armor. Geralt grunted, facing the startled, drunken crowd with a growl. Jaskier knew that the man was following his base instincts, so it warmed his heart to know that Geralt was so territorial of him. Jaskier was worthy of the protection of a hero. Now that was something he’d already written a ballad or two about.

“Fuck. Off.”

That was, apparently, all the Witcher needed to say to disperse the men who’d harassed the bard for hours. Geralt leads Jaskier to the innkeeper, the smell of fear rolling off of the old man in waves. He lays down his coin on the counter, barking out, “Bath.”

The innkeeper scrambled to comply and get out of the Witcher’s way as he barrelled toward their room. Jaskier could only follow, getting the sudden urge to cry his eyes out. He couldn’t do that in front of his best friend, or even worse… the bloody innkeeper. It was unbecoming of a grown man, especially since nothing was permanently damaged. The thing that hurt the most was his pride. The embarrassment was nearly unbearable, despite the fact that he could almost guarantee that Geralt would never mention this again if he asked.

When they reached the room, the Witcher gestured for Jaskier to sit in a rocking chair beside the bed. The bard assumed it was to keep the bed they would be sharing clean, so he obeyed. He watched as Geralt rummaged through his pack, grunting as he searched for White Honey potion. While the Witcher was distracted, Jaskier let a few tears slip down his cheeks. It occurred to the bard that heckling didn’t occur while Geralt watched his performances. What if they were all just scared of the big, bad Wolf? Was he even a good bard, or just one that people tolerated for the sake of the Witcher? His few tears turned quickly into quiet sobs.

Geralt finally found the potion and downed it quickly. Immediately, he turned to Jaskier to gauge the severity of his injuries. Jaskier watched as the large, black pupils shrunk to reveal concerned, glowing orbs of gold. When he observed the bard’s shaking form, he knelt down at his feet and stared up like a giant child awaiting storytime. Jaskier would have laughed if not for the fact that his heart was shattered. The Witcher must have sensed something was amiss when Jaskier didn’t start the conversation, so he took initiative.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be here sooner,” he starts softly, resting a hand on Jaskier’s leg. “There was an extra Nekker nest to destroy. I… I didn’t realize they throw things at you anymore. I saw it in Posada, but not since. They didn’t get any further than that, did they? Didn’t touch you?”

Jaskier numbly shook his head as he bit his lip to stop the next wave of tears. The harsh taste of metal flooded his mouth, but he couldn’t keep crying. Geralt didn’t cry after a contract was completed, no matter how poorly it went. It shouldn’t bother him that some people heckled. It was part of being a bard, afterall. He had to take the good with the bad, and there was often so much more good than bad.

“Jaskier… let’s get you cleaned up. That useless prick should be coming with the bath soon, but at least we can get your face.”

The bard nodded wordlessly, waiting compliantly as Geralt shuffled through his things for a rag and his waterskin. Dampening the cloth, Geralt wiped away at the muck softly, as if Jaskier was a fragile, but most valuable, doll. He forgot sometimes with Geralt’s brutish strength that he could also give a delicate touch. Somehow, it managed to soothe some of his anguish.

“Thank you,” he whined weakly, wincing as Geralt’s light touch grazed the purplish skin around his eyes. “You… Do you need mending? I swear I’m still capable. They d-didn’t break me.”

Geralt shakes his head. “A clean bounty, this time. I wish you’d gotten it as easy as I did, bard. That eye is going to bruise, no doubt, but I can fetch a salve from-”

“No!”

The outburst seemed to surprise even Jaskier, biting his lip again. It struck him then that the idea of Geralt leaving his sight terrified him. He knew that if the door was locked, the innkeeper probably wouldn’t come for him. However, even the slightest thought that he would have to face the crowd again made him nauseous. Now, with Geralt looking on in such surprised concern, the bard realized that his behavior was ridiculous.

“I just don’t need you spending any extra coin,” he lied through his teeth. “I’m sorry.”

Geralt hummed and, before he could explain that he would stay as long as Jaskier needed him, there was a knock at the door. The Witcher grumbled, fiercely approaching the door and opening it to find the innkeeper’s terrified face. He did relax slightly when he noticed that Geralt looked closer to a human than a demon. The man dragged in a basin of piping hot water, glancing about nervously.

“Here you are, Master Witcher. I hope y-you find the room to your l-likin’.”

The man left as quick as he came, not even glancing at Jaskier in fear of angering the Witcher further. Geralt shook his head, holding out a hand for the bard. He takes it tentatively, standing and staring at Geralt’s kind touch. He usually wasn’t so blatant with affection, and yet Jaskier could see it clear as day.

“Would you like some help?” He asks, tilting the bard’s chin up to look him in the eyes. “I’m not going anywhere, except maybe out of these clothes.”

Jaskier actually musters up a small smile, nodding before rasping out, “You do that. I’ll get in.”

Geralt, pondering perhaps the shortest two sentences Jaskier had ever spoken, grunts in confirmation and leaves Jaskier to get undressed. He’d never seen the man so quiet in all the time they’d travelled together. The bard must be exhausted, but even then he always had something to say. A quiet Jaskier wasn’t really Jaskier at all. Whatever they did to him before Geralt got there must have genuinely bothered him. That didn’t sit well with the Witcher at all.

He kept his shirt off and put on loose pants before crossing the room, finding Jaskier sinking into the bath until only his face was exposed. The poor man looked a little more at peace, and so the Witcher thought he would have his old bard back in no time. When Jaskier heard Geralt coming, he sat up a little straighter to give the tiniest of smiles.

“Do you remember the Djinn?”

Well, that wasn’t a question he was expecting. Warily, he nods. Honestly, most of that day felt like a blur. He was so worried that the Djinn was going to kill his fairly young companion, and then he met Yennefer… That story had its own woes. Geralt tried to avoid thinking of that day lately, especially having not resolved his issues with Yen.

“You said something that day. For once, you were right. I should have listened to you sooner, Geralt. I could’ve given up while I was ahead.”

Geralt frowns, grabbing the man’s sweet-smelling soaps and bath salts for him as he contemplates. He truly had been exhausted that day. The Witcher hadn’t even so much as meditated for days after declaring the Law of Surprise. At the time, he thought the Djinn was his only hope for peace. Instead, it only served to hurt his friend and tie him to the inevitability of destiny.

“I would hope I haven’t discouraged your profession,” he admits softly. “I was very… tired and angry that day. Refresh my memory.”

Jaskier smiles weakly, “I’d asked what you thought of my singing. You said it was ‘like ordering a pie and discovering it had no filling.’”

Geralt stills and, yes, he does remember saying that. He also remembers the intent was just to get Jaskier to stop blabbering about his own unfortunate wrongdoings. The Witcher would never say that genuinely. If anything, he’d grown to like listening to the bard’s ditties, particularly the ones that weren’t about him at all. Although it wasn’t the silence he was used to with Roach, it was a new normal; a change of pace from his, sometimes, monotonous life of killing the same monsters without fail. Jaskier challenged him in a new way. He tested his patience for starters, but it was never about the quality of his singing.

“I didn’t mean that,” he says with a heavy sigh. “Jaskier, I was exhausted and stressed. I hadn’t slept or meditated in days. I’d only said it so I could… avoid the reason I wasn’t resting properly.”

Jaskier snorts, turning his head to the side. That was just Geralt trying to ease his heavy heart. It’s not as if he’d said anything to compliment his singing in the past decade or so. There had only been tough critiques, and Geralt’s mind only seemed to focus on if it was factual or not. Jaskier’s biggest hit was most likely due to the intrigue of a kind Witcher, not any skill on his part. The bard felt as though the whole Continent had played a cruel prank on him, and the Witcher was in on it.

“I have sensitive hearing,” Geralt confesses, cutting through Jaskier’s self-deprecating thoughts. “Unbidden sound, which could be any number of things, quite literally grates on every fiber of my being. I can, at this very moment hear my voice, my heartbeat, your breathing, your heartbeat, the fucker snoring three doors down, and a mouse scurrying in the basement. All. At. Once.”

Jaskier turns to look at Geralt, and sudden guilt washes over him. All those times Geralt had asked him for silence, and the bard only teased him back. He wondered then why Geralt kept him around. All he did was talk and sing on most days. Neither of the things were any help at all to a person with super hearing. Geralt must have seen the guilt on his face because he began to explain himself further.

“That being said, you are the only bard I have ever given the time of day. Your voice is… it’s enjoyable. Alright? When I tell you to quiet, it’s usually where there are already other sounds grating on my senses. I can block them out, but it takes concentration that’s often not worth the effort. I’m not trying to insult you, Jaskier. You also needn’t feel guilty for what I’ve said. If it bothered me enough, I would focus on it. I just… don’t anymore. Do you understand, bard?”

Jaskier frowns, studying his friend. Geralt couldn’t be lying now. There was a genuineness to his voice that portrayed exactly how much he meant it, not to mention that this was the most he’d heard Geralt speak at once… ever. The bard couldn’t help but be touched at the sentiments. Still, he still wondered why others listened to him. Did they fear the Witcher’s wrath? To answer Geralt’s question, he nods.

Geralt doesn’t look convinced. He could smell the sour note of distress in the air, and he knew Jaskier was still thinking of this evening’s humiliating experience. The Witcher was sure this would stick with the bard long after they left this town. Jaskier would be mopey and melancholy for weeks. Geralt already missed his bard. Taking the soap from the man’s hands so the man could actually get clean, he uses the focusing skill he has long abandoned. Now, he could only hear Jaskier’s shallow breathing.

“Sing something for me.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head in disbelief. Was this actually Geralt? Had a doppler taken the place of his best friend? Warily, he tries to pick one he thinks Geralt would enjoy. “Toss A Coin To Your Witcher” was overused, and “The Fishmonger’s Daughter” had always been too bawdy for Geralt’s tastes. Sighing, he starts in on one of his newer songs.

“The wolf I will follow into the storm / To find your heart, its passion displaced / By ire ever growing, hardening into stone / Amidst the cold to hold you in a heated embrace…”

The words were strung together much like a declaration, and Geralt could hear the loving tone in his voice. The metaphor was obvious, though the Witcher couldn’t help but wonder who’s perspective it was written from. If it was Jaskier’s… well, he and his friend certainly had something to discuss. Geralt wasn’t sure he could handle his bard having a crush on him or Melitele forbid, actually being in love with him. If this was not the case, Jaskier was indeed a flawless actor. He could read the longing in his eyes like a book. He spent so much time studying the heartache in those cornflower blues that he didn’t realize Jaskier had stopped singing until he spoke.

“You’re smiling,” Jaskier whispers reverently, as if that was the best reaction he’d ever gotten. Geralt couldn’t place when exactly his lips had quirked into a heartfelt grin, but he was happy it existed all the same. “You really do like it, don’t you?”

Geralt merely grunts, showing his appreciation in the gentle way he scrubbed the man’s hair clean. Apparently, that gentle touch was all Jaskier needed to calm, because Jaskier closed his eyes and a blissful expression crossed his countenance. Geralt found it endearing and sweet as the bard leaned into his touch like a needy pup. Jaskier was quiet for a long while after that, letting the Witcher remove every speck of grime from his body. He was methodical and sure, a firm touch that grounded Jaskier and kept him from facing his self-doubt.

Finally, when Geralt is so close to completely cleaning him, he blurts out, “Will you stay for future performances?”

Geralt isn’t surprised with the question, but he is surprised at how utterly ashamed Jaskier sounds. It’s as if he feels as if he's finally giving up. Geralt didn’t understand the concern since he didn’t mind being a guard for the poor man. If he could stave off further attacks like this, then it would be worth it. His reputation was a dangerous one, and he knew no one would cross an angry Witcher. Reaching for a bucket to wash out Jaskier’s hair, he gave a grunt that clearly meant “Of course, you idiot. You only needed to ask.”

Jaskier had relaxed again after the affirmation, but he looked more resigned than pleased. Geralt wasn’t sure how to fix it, but at the very least the bard was clean. The Witcher hands him a fluffy towel and turns to give him privacy. Sifting through Jaskier’s things, he finds a softer set of clothes clearly meant for sleeping. He rolls his eyes at this, muttering something about noble men and their incessant need for unnecessary luxuries. Geralt pointed this out often. At this point, it was a running joke for Jaskier to call him boorish and lacking taste, while Geralt would stick to calling him frivolous and extravagant. Of course, they wouldn’t have each other any other way.

The Witcher finds Jaskier wrapped in a towel from the waist down, politely holding out a hand for his clothes. Geralt handed them off, scrutinizing the man’s tired gaze. Maybe it was just plain human exhaustion, but something nagged at his mind that it was much more. When Jaskier noticed the hard stare of his best friend he seemed to cower before it, not in fear but rather apprehension.

“There’s something else bothering you that you won’t speak of,” he states bluntly. “You don’t have to say, but I’d… I’d much prefer it if you did.”

Jaskier shakes his head and turns away, yanking up silky pajamas. His face was an endless sea of worry and conflicted emotions. To tell the Witcher or not… that was the question indeed. The bard had to admit that he worried for the fate of the people when Geralt caught wind. Still, Jaskier was never one to keep his mouth shut. With a groan, he flops back on the bed and spills all.

“They called me your whore,” he admits petulantly. “Which is… well, certainly untrue but not the worst title I’ve been given. It just made me think that, maybe, people tolerate me in their taverns because they think you’ll… eat them or something, I don’t know. We haven’t had trouble since we met in Posada, this is true, but I can’t help but think my novelty has worn out.”

The Witcher tenses, this much Jaskier notices even without enhanced senses. It is an easy sign of building aggravation and, for a moment, the bard thinks it’s directed at him. His job is to fix Geralt’s reputation, not muddy it even further. In an instant, Jaskier knows he’s made the wrong choice. He sits up, eyeing his friend warily before resting a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I’ll write a ballad about your escapades with prostitutes… or something. I’ll make it enough of a success to detract from this nonsense.”  
Geralt glares at him sharply, his nostrils flaring like a furious bull. Apparently, this was the wrong thing to say. Jaskier takes a moment to realize that Geralt has shrugged his hand off and instead gripped him firmly by the shoulders. He was being studied yet again, but for what he wasn’t sure. Was this the part where the Witcher sent him away again? He hoped not. His heart wouldn’t be able to manage the aftermath.

“You aren’t upset,” Geralt states, and it wasn’t a question like Jaskier expected. “They said that to you… and you weren’t upset; aren’t upset.”

Jaskier gives an uneasy smile. “I mean… No? Not on my own behalf, anyway. I just don’t want to ruin your tough-guy mystique. What would it say about you? As for me, everyone already knows me as a superb lover of… many. That’s the whole reason I dragged you around to Cintra!”

Geralt laughs. Loudly. It’s a sound that shocks and delights, since Jaskier hears it so rarely. The bard is lucky if he can get a wry smirk out of the Witcher on a good day. Yet, here they are with Geralt in near hysterics and Jaskier left to wonder if he’d finally lost his mind. Did the Witcher hit his head before reaching the inn and just forget in the chaos of the evening? Jaskier was about to check when, as quickly as it came, the laughter died out.

“Only you would worry about my reputation when the locals think you’re fucking a monster,” Geralt wheezes, looking down at the frowning bard. “You really don’t care?”

“No, I don’t,” he growls out defiantly. “When are you going to get it through your thick skull that you are a man, just as I am? You just… kick more ass than the normal man. Nothing wrong with that.”

There was a tense moment of silence between the pair. Geralt looked away, ashamed as memories of humanity’s many instances of shunning him sprung to mind. Jaskier had been one of the few humans who truly accepted him for all that he was and could not be. He tended to his wounds and worried about his reputation. The Witcher couldn’t ask for a better person to travel the Path with him. He knew he didn’t deserve it, after everything he’d put the bard through. Jaskier was a better, kinder man than he was.

The bard broke him from his thoughts by pushing his chin up on a single finger. Geralt didn’t bother resisting, staring at the bard’s blushing cheeks and bright eyes. However, those brilliant eyes closed and, before the Witcher could even think to refuse, Jaskier bestowed upon him a kiss. Geralt tensed, and for one sickening moment Jaskier thought he’d misread the signs. The Witcher really was disgusted at the thought of being with him in the way the peasants described.

But then, as if finally connecting with the moment at hand, Geralt ran his hand through brunet locks and used the other to pull Jaskier by the waist. His eyes fluttered shut, and he relished the taste of honey and lavender. It was so perfectly Jaskier. Slowly and delicately, the Witcher tipped the bard back on the bed. Reminding himself to breathe, Geralt broke the spell cast over them both and simply stared at his partner’s slightly swollen lips.

When Jaskier opened his eyes, he whispered, “Do you see now that I care not what the rabble say about us? I will always, as long as you will have me, choose you over them. Every time, Geralt.”

The Witcher huffs, quirking his lips into a smirk as he admits, “That will be an awfully long time, I’m afraid.”

Jaskier goes to say something more, but loses all volition when Geralt places a gentle kiss just beneath his jawline. The bard would almost certainly have some sort of a mark in the morning, but that was just fine with him. If this was the price he would have to pay for, what he believed to be, true love, he would take it gladly. It wasn’t until Geralt finally came to rest at his side that Jaskier whispered, “A long time with you doesn’t scare me. From that first day in Posada, I knew you smelled of destiny. Although… I wasn’t aware your destiny would twist with mine so perfectly. Fear not, darling, for I am forever grateful. I told you once that, one day, someone would want you. That someone was always going to be me, dear Witcher.”

Geralt hums, rolling to his side and tracing his fingers along Jaskier’s chest. Judging by his flushed cheeks, Jaskier could tell that this was to detract from the sheer amount of emotion in the room. Despite common rumor, Geralt did feel. He felt so much for so many people, he was just piss-poor at explaining his emotions. Jaskier was quite the opposite, and wore his heart on his sleeve. This was all fine; Jaskier could show love enough for the both of them.

“Sleep,” Geralt grumbled to his bard, wrapping a protective arm around the bard’s middle. “We leave this wretched land of degenerates by dawn.”

Jaskier huffed out a laugh and soon dozed off to the sound of Geralt's steady heartbeat.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Comments, kudos, and constructive criticism are always welcome. I hope you all enjoyed this work, and have a lovely day!


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